


be careful what you wish for

by vandoorne



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blackmail, Coming In Pants, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Feminization, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Forced Masturbation, In Public, M/M, Masturbation, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Panties, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 22:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandoorne/pseuds/vandoorne
Summary: patrick is dropped by the red bull young drivers programme and is desperate for a drive in formula 1. fortunately for him, there's a way to get that. by selling his body, of course.





	be careful what you wish for

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/gifts).

By day (mostly by day, with the exception of the night races like in Singapore and Abu Dhabi, which is a twilight race), Patrick is your average mid-field Formula 1 driver. Scraps around for points, beats his teammate sometimes but mostly loses out, finished fourth once in Singapore when incident after incident took out most of his competition. The pundits say he's got talent, but not quite good enough for a big team, compared to his teammate. And then there are the people who sneer at him, calling him a _pay driver_. That he got his seat only because of the sponsors that he brings in, and he kept his current seat only because his team needs money, and he's also scoring decent enough points to not get the boot.

It hurts, of course. But most of the time Patrick grins and bears it. Tries not to let the words get to him. Shuts it all out, because all of it can hardly matter when he's driving in Formula 1. The _pinnacle_ of motor racing. He's worked so hard to get here, and he's determined not to let anything or anyone else ruin it for him.

And oh, people have absolutely _no idea_ just how on earth Patrick managed to get so many sponsors. Real estate, telecommunications, banks even. People have wondered, some have poked around, but none have come back with the answer. And Patrick knows, in his heart of hearts, that there will be no answer for them, because that's just how it is.

See, no one is ever going to find out just _how_ Patrick gets his sponsors and keeps them. If there's one thing he has to his advantage, it's how youthful he still looks. Still looks like a teenager with a pretty face and the right haircut, and given the nature of motorsport, he isn't too bulky in terms of muscle mass, with nice shapely thighs and a bubble butt from playing hockey all the time and of course, his smaller stature helps too. Never mind that he's actually twenty four. Past his prime to be signed to be signed on to a young drivers programme now, especially with how everyone knows that he had been signed and then dropped by Red Bull in the past, skipped over without a shot at the Toro Rosso seat. Helmut Marko had made no secret of how lowly he thought of Patrick's skills, and it wasn't as if his parents could continue to fund his racing activities.

Then, well. Along came an offer that had sounded too good to be true. On hindsight, Patrick thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should've never agreed to this. But his desire to push to the top, where the rest of the other boys he had raced against in karting had now gone? He's dug his own grave, and now he has to lie in it.

_You need to sell yourself more._

To be honest, Patrick had never thought that it would _literally_ mean selling himself. And the worst part was probably how well, he'd never had sex with anyone before. Never really had time for relationships, had never really been interested in anyone anyway. And to think that the first time anyone would know his body so intimately would be in some last ditch attempt to muster up enough sponsors to gun for one of the last few seats available in the Formula 1 circus. That had been the only thing Patrick had thought of when someone had touched his bare skin for the first time. The Formula 1 seat. The Formula 1 seat. Nothing else but a _Formula 1 seat_ over and over again, as fingers, plugs, objects, cocks fucked themselves into him. His mouth, his ass, and all throughout his cock had leaked pre-come pathetically into the bedsheets, on to his stomach, and he had cried when he came all over himself and they had continued to fuck him hard, relentlessly, not caring if his body could still take the stimulation.

That had been the first time. Shaken, Patrick had thought that if that was what was needed of him to get into Formula 1, then maybe no, he wasn't up for it after all.

Then the photos had started coming. Air dropped on to his iPhone randomly, photos of him in compromising positions. Threats of exposure if he didn't comply. Promises of sponsorship if he continued.

So Patrick went.

In the beginning, it hadn't been much. Just show up to whatever party in someone's huge suite in a hotel. Usually in team gear, now that he's got a seat in Formula 1, with a lacy pair of white panties underneath his jeans, a ribbon tied at the base of his cock. He had hated it, hated being used over and over, but he had to suck it up, quite literally, because he had always known, in his heart of hearts, that without this, without the money, his chances of staying in the team would be slim. The sponsors paid for his salary too, not just the seat. If he didn't have any sponsorship, he would be useless in his position.

Then it had escalated, and Patrick had not been able to say no. How could he anyway, when he needed the sponsorship?

That's how he finds himself clad in a schoolgirl outfit, white shirt tied up to expose his stomach, short pleated skirt barely covering his ass. White lacy panties again, with that humiliating ribbon around the base of his cock, and a butt plug shoved up his ass, already lubed and ready to be fucked. The entertainment for today's party, where he's led to the centre of the room. Made to kneel, on all fours, with his ass up in the air as people yank his panties aside and shove a variety of things up his ass, making him guess what's inside. Markers, pens, dildos, fingers. Someone's cock, and they come inside him too, without a condom. As much as Patrick doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to let them know that he's feeling the humiliation alright, he's unable to control himself this time. His voice is broken, hoarse from begging and sucking people off and he can hear himself choking up when he guesses what has been shoved inside him. He's screaming when they turn him over on his back and make him bend so that when he comes, he gets it all over his face.

Being used as a party game had taken its toll on Patrick, as much as he hadn't wanted to admit it. His performances in Baku and Barcelona are less that stellar, and it's here in Monaco, on a Friday night that he finds himself being auctioned off for sex on a mega yacht.

_Your very own Formula 1 driver to do whatever you want with. To mess up, to fuck hard, to come inside, as long as you don't break him. He needs to race after all. Who's interested?_

And that's how he ends up being made to strip for an audience, cheeks burning in shame. He peels off his skinny jeans that cling to his legs like a second skin, throws off his team t-shirt, leaving himself in nothing but the panties. The winner of the auction makes him gag himself with his own panties and finger himself for everyone to see. There are camera shutters going off, and all Patrick can do to drown out the humiliation is to close his eyes and try to think of how he would drive the track tomorrow.

But it's futile, given how the winner of the auction forces him to _look him in the eyes_. Makes Patrick yell against the panties in his mouth as the winner shoves his cock into him, impossibly huge and wide, stretching him open. And all throughout there are others looking at him, watching him. Laughing at him when the winner pumps his ass full of come, laughing at how his asshole twitches, trying desperately to close around something after the winner pulls out, laughing at how when the winner steps on his cock, that's all it takes for him to come in spurts, getting it all over himself.

The sponsors do not touch Patrick after Monaco. He does well in Montreal, scores a streak of points up until Silverstone and that's when the team comes up to him and asks if the money is going to come in from his sponsors.

That's when Patrick's blood runs cold. If there's no money then there's no seat, never mind that he's actually doing decent now. The team's third driver would be more than happy to replace him. No, this cannot be. He cannot let it happen.

On hindsight, Patrick supposes that it might have been nothing more than a trap. To get him to beg to be fucked hard, beg for cock up his ass or in his mouth or both, beg to swallow come over and over again like a filthy come slut. The thought only occurs to him when his ass is filled with come from at least five different men and plugged with a vibrator that is currently set on low. His cock is hard and leaking against his white panties, and even though he had done his best to tuck himself neatly in his jeans so that he wouldn't give himself away, it's proving to be far too difficult.

It's a sponsor event for one of the banks that he's receiving backing from. He's doing a promotional activity, engaging with customers, they're playing stupid games and all he can focus on is the sensations from the plug and how he's going to come so hard that it's fucking ridiculous. He's sweating it, his gaze is unfocused and he's barely paying attention. There's nothing he wants more than for this to end already, god is having his seat really worth all of this? Worth being used as a sex toy just for money?

Just as the last customer is about to leave, the vibrations increase in intensity. That's all it takes for Patrick to come hard, crumpling to the ground in a choked sob, cheeks aflame with humiliation.

Everyone crowds around him, there are worried faces, genuine concern from some but also smirks of delight. The vibrations aren't stopping, at this rate someone is going to _hear_ and figure it all out, then one of the managers steps in and asks everyone to clear off.

'Poor thing, he looks exhausted.'

'He's been doing better lately, right?'

'Do you think he'll be able to keep his seat for next season?'

'Oh don't say that in front of the poor dear, he just collapsed!'

_Good job_, someone whispers in Patrick's ear. _Excellent show you put on. We'll make sure you get the seat next year._

Patrick whimpers, struggling to get up when the vibrations stop. The only time he actually feels human is when he's in the car. The rest of the time, he's nothing more than a sex toy, used for other people's pleasure. As much as he hates it, he's unable to deny that his body now craves for it, his cock leaks whenever he's being summoned and his ass longs to be filled up and pounded.

Patrick's fingering himself, panties pushed to one side, bra pushed up as well to reveal his puffy pink nipples. His skirt is discarded on the floor, and everyone can see him thrust his fingers into his asshole, moaning and begging for more. Some of the men are his sponsors, some are interested to be in on the action. Their very own Formula 1 driver to do whatever they want with. His pleas are answered soon enough, and someone gets in line to replace his fingers with a thick cock.

Is this all worth it? The answer has to be yes, Patrick supposes. But in his heart of hearts, he wonders.


End file.
